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The young monk Shangren was named Huaisu; in cursive script, he was acclaimed unrivaled throughout the world.
From the Ink Pool flew the fish of the Northern Sea; the brush tip slew all the rabbits of Zhongshan.
In the eighth and ninth months, the weather is cool, and wine-loving poets fill the grand hall.
Sheets of hemp paper and plain silk are arranged in several rows; the ink on the Xuan prefecture stone inkstone gleams.
After my master gets drunk, he leans against the rope bed and in a moment sweeps across several thousand sheets.
Whirling winds and sudden rain startle with a rustling roar; falling flowers and flying snow stretch vast and indistinct.
He rises and faces the wall, his hand never stopping; a single line of characters is as large as a dipper.
The fierce tiger does not look at meat placed on the table, nor does the great furnace cast a cone hidden in a pouch.
After my master gets drunk, he leans against the rope bed; with awesome power, he can move the heavens and see through the celestial eye.
How laughable, how laughable! Ning Wuzi and Zhu Maichen, knocking on ox horns, singing as they walk, carrying firewood on their backs.
Today I meet you, yet you do not recognize me—how could I be any better than a madman pretending to be insane?